


Even When We're Not

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, what does it mean to be human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic in response to a flash fiction challenge prompt - "We're all human, even when we're not." What makes us human? Also an experiment with indefinite pronouns. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even When We're Not

He wasn’t human. Not really. He was a serial killer, taking lives at random. A wolf, picking out the weak from a herd of deer. He had children. Loved them? But he had no human compassion for anyone else. Even a wolf has a care for its young. Sherlock pressed down on his wounded shoulder until he screamed out the name. He felt nothing but contempt and triumph as the man died under his foot. He wasn’t human. Not really. 

He wasn’t human. Not really. He was a demon. He played with lives for fun and profit. From his perch in hell, he surveyed the chess-board world and moved the pieces to suit him. He looked up at his opponent with brown, tormented eyes and laughed. The eyes were filled with madness. And need. Need for one other, brother, likeness, opponent, anything other than a world full of chess pieces. If he cared about the pieces, he would lose. Sherlock was not, he assured his opponent, one of them. He wasn’t human. Not really. 

He wasn’t human. Not really. He was a dragon, a monster. A shark, flat-eyed, swimming in the cold watery world he thought he owned. A reptile, hiding in the rocks of his newspapers, his mind palace, his position, tongue flicking out to catch hints of scandal in the air. Cold-blooded, alert to the vagaries of the warm-blooded animals around him. His world held no place for heroes, only for the survival of the fittest. Laughable, really. Sherlock was not, he assured his opponent, a hero. He was just a high-functioning sociopath. He wasn’t human. Not really. 

He wasn’t human. Not really. He was the British Government. He was the smart one. He had no friends. He had family, but he never let that interfere with his duty. There were whispers that he had been complicit in what happened to his older brother, but the shadowed details of the incident were enough to terrify those who might have raised their voices above a whisper. He had lovers for convenience, stress-relief. He kept them carefully compartmentalized, thoroughly investigated, and well-paid. If he had loved his younger brother, events had proved the utter foolishness of love. He would return to using only the parts of himself that he trusted. He wasn’t human. Not really. 

He wasn’t human. Not really. Mycroft was right. They weren’t like the other children. Playing with them had proved disastrous. Sherlock was not surprised at his brother’s plan for Eastern Europe. He had some utility there before his precisely-calculated death. His brother never wasted resources. Rather a neat solution, considering everything. Sherlock said goodbye to his brother, whose expression remained as tightly furled as his umbrella. He said goodbye to John, whose expression was that of a small animal being tortured. The slight joke seemed to put John out of his misery long enough for them to shake hands. Long enough for Sherlock to turn away. He did not weep. He did not embrace John. He did not ask to be remembered. He wasn’t human. Not really.


End file.
